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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303146">it deepens like a coastal shelf</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamomile_cat/pseuds/chamomile_cat'>chamomile_cat</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Chinese!Martin, Depression, Fluff and Angst, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Non-Binary Jonathan Sims, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), i wrote this on my notes app bc im stereotypical like that, jon uses he/they pronouns and swings between them, lots of guilt over that, mostly angst tho sorry, no i didnt project yes i did no i didnt, ok fine i projected a little.... for the verisimilitude.., this fic is very emotionally heavy, warning for martin's mom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:40:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,864</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26303146</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/chamomile_cat/pseuds/chamomile_cat</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin once read that learning to live was simply just making it a habit. </p><p>----------<br/>“Sometimes being offered tenderness feels like the very proof that you've been ruined.”<br/>― Ocean Vuong, On Earth We're Briefly Gorgeous</p><p>I wanted to explore the implications of Chinese!Martin, especially with his relationship to his mother. I also wanted to explore the idea of healing, of learning to feel again (ie the impact of the lonely on martin's grief for his mother), and the conflict between wanting to stand on your own as well as relying on others. So I vomited this out in 3 days while I was supposed to study for my prelims, oops!</p><p>Title taken from This Be The Verse by Philip Larkin.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>98</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>tma fics</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>it deepens like a coastal shelf</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>disclaimers:<br/>1. while i am chinese, and a lot of the references to chinese culture were taken from my own experience with it, my experiences and martin's experiences are inherently different. my parents weren't immigrants and i live in a country whose majority race is chinese, so the connection between me and my culture vs martin and his culture will be different.</p><p>2. please tell me if you need any more warnings, or if anything was depicted offensively</p><p>TW: depression, guilt, mentions of death (martin's mother), divorce, isolation, (internalised) homophobia. it's a very emotionally heavy BUT there is healing. </p><p>this work is unbeta-ed</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Martin once read that learning to live was simply just making it a habit. Learn to live today, and then tomorrow, and then the next until it becomes as easy as breathing. He’s not sure if he believes it. Breathing is difficult as it is. Each draw of breath hurts so deep in his heart that it’s almost nauseating. He's used to surviving, not living. </p><p>Martin feels the train drag away from the station, building momentum, chugging faster and faster before settling into a comfortable pace as the bustling city fades into quilts of fields and farms. He breaks away from the scene to look at a gently smiling Jon. Martin squeezes his hand and smiles back, gently. He’s been learning to do that more now. Smiling. Feeling anything but that heavy weight on his heart.  </p><p>Jon closes his eyes, still facing him. His lips curve into a crescent moon smile and Martin loves him. Has loved him since the day Prentiss came and Jon asked him if he was a ghost. It had been just a crush until then; Martin knows he has a type for authority figures. He knows why but it doesn’t matter, at least it kept them out of his reach. Can’t get hurt if you don’t get a chance, right? Jon’s idiot question broke down that barrier of impersonality that had fast begun to crumble from the moment the supernatural became involved in his life. And then Martin had waited, dreamt so long he felt his yearning rise up in his throat and threaten to choke him with it. Then Peter Lukas happened, and Martin felt as though his love for him was hidden behind a wall of fog. </p><p>Martin watches a small child open a pack of M&amp;Ms and sort them out by colour. She eats them until she has three of each colour and then pours the green ones into her mother’s hands. </p><p>“Your favourite colour!” she explains, kissing her mother’s cheeks twice, left and right. Her mother smiles and kisses her head. “Good girl,” she praises in Chinese. </p><p>Martin looks at the sight and thinks of his own mother. Of filial piety. He had followed the Di Zi Gui religiously, as if it was the key to his mother’s love and respect. Always gave her the best part of the chicken, always tried his best to make her proud in school, made sure she was as comfortable as possible, though now he knew every time she looked at his face, she saw the man that had betrayed and left her. In the end it didn’t matter how much he tried; she always found fault in everything. </p><p>Well. He did try anyway. Martin closes his eyes. Breathes in deep. Lets the thoughts sink back into unfathomable depths of his mind. He’s not about to let the Lonely take him away again. </p><p>——<br/>
When Martin first met Jon, he loved and hated him in equal measure. Alright, perhaps both were strong words. But seeing his Oxford degree, his well-enunciated English, he was almost everything an Asian parent could ask for— almost everything Martin’s mom could ask for. Jon reminded him of every cousin that his mother had compared him too (the little times she even spoke to him were mostly filled with snide comments like “Uncle Shen Wei’s daughter got a double degree at Bei Da”, an unspoken “why couldn’t you be like that?” in the air). She had always told him they came to the UK for a better life, so he could get a better education because Lord knows he would die in the Chinese education system with that brain of his, so why wasn’t he doing well? All that sacrifice gone to waste. </p><p>After his dad left, it wasn’t all bad. There was less shouting after all. The tension was still there though, this time between him and his mother. Greater expectations on him as she became weaker and weaker and stayed home more and more. Every day after school Martin would go into her room to greet her, refill her water bottles with warm water. Then, he would go heat up the takeaway he bought for the both of them. He would sit in her room, on the floor, and they would eat mostly in silence. On good days she would ask how his day was, what he learnt in school. Would smile softly at him and pat his hair after they finished eating before sinking back into her pillows, eyes closed. </p><p>It got hard though. Alimony checks stopped coming after several years and Martin’s mother's bed rest got more frequent until she couldn’t work anymore.</p><p>The day he told his mother he quit school, she stopped talking to him. Simply said, “How dare you.” in that slow, soft rage of hers and turned away from him in shame. Martin stood there, trembling before turning away without letting his mother see the fat tears rolling down his cheeks. Why couldn’t she see what a sacrifice he had made for her? Martin was filled with bitterness, and then guilt and shame for it. He would carry it for the next few years that was enough to weigh down several lifetimes. </p><p>——<br/>
“Are you decent?” Martin knocks on the bathroom door. It had been a long drive from the station and Martin would kill to wash off the grime off his skin right now.</p><p>“Yes! Come in, I’m almost done,” Jon yells back, voice muffled by the wooden door in between. Martin hears the door click open and he finds Jon in the bathroom trying to drag the brush through their beautiful long hair. Martin tuts and goes to hang his pyjamas on the hook before gently batting away Jon’s hand and taking the brush from them. </p><p>“Be nice to your hair,” he scolds, gingerly picking the knots apart before combing them down with his fingers until they’ve smoothened out. </p><p>Jon leans back into him as he brushes their locks gently. Martin can’t help but smile at the trust he’s been given. </p><p>“You’re good at this,” Jon hums, “I’ve never been able to get the knots out that quickly before; I usually just braid it so it doesn’t get too tangled. But well, it’s been a while since I’ve done that... perhaps it’s time to start again.” They chuckle. </p><p>Back before Prentiss, Jon had come into work with elaborate braids every day. Martin marvelled over each one. After the attack, their braids got simpler and simpler until Jon eventually stopped. </p><p>“I had practice. I used to do this for my mom,” Martin hears himself say, “back before...” </p><p>Jon is quiet for a moment before they turn around to kiss his cheek and then turn back. Martin doesn’t even have to face them to know they’re doing that frown where they want to say something but can’t. Jon understands him. </p><p>Both of them had childhoods they still think about, try as they might to repress it. Martin couldn’t help but be nostalgic for the past and present he wish they had. Maybe they both wished they had a better childhood. Would they have turned out like this? Together? Was it all worth it in the end? Martin wonders about his other self, the one that graduated university like everyone else, that had a normal job, that was probably married with kids and a white picket fence or whatever it was that cis straight Chinese people dreamed for that Martin had long given up on. Martin thinks of filial piety, of the mother wound, takes a moment to be selfish and just <i>want</i>. </p><p>——</p><p>The morning of their first full day in the cabin is as uncertain and syrupy as honey. Martin feels as though he can’t move, can’t get out of bed. There’s an ache where his heart resides and all he wants to do is just lie down and watch the dust motes float around while he tries to cry for a cathartic release but can’t find any prickle of tears to do so. Thus he lies down. </p><p>Martin feels the bed dip beside him and takes in a small, shaky breath as Jon’s clever fingers brush his curls away and tucks them behind his ears. He closes his eyes. Leans into the coolness of his hands away from the insidious molasses warmth of the morning. Martin is learning to live. Slowly. He reaches out to hold Jon’s hand, still against his cheek, and revels in its coolness. Jon’s other hand trails down and reaches up into Martin’s shirt to rest on his waist. They hold each other like that for a while until Martin feels lucid enough to wake.<br/>
——</p><p>His mother loved him in her own way, he was sure. Knew it when she brought him out to eat Macdonald’s a week after his father left and she had smashed up the house in anger, knew it when he found their laundry hanging outside together. He had known it better as a child, her arms around his as she lifted him up on the kitchen counter and together they crooned some old Chinese song that couldn’t be found on the radio while she prepared dinner, knew it by the feeling of her hand around his as she brought his thumb and index finger together to show how to properly fold a dumpling. Food had always been her main love language until his dad left and meals began to consist entirely out of takeaway and gradually fell to him to fumble around the kitchen making simple steamed egg or cabbage soup the way he remembered seeing his mother cook.</p><p>Now that Peter’s influence on him is mostly gone, Martin feels the grief of his mother’s death roil in him. Feels as helpless as flotsam. Jon anchors him, makes him feel solid at the slightest hint of fog rolling in around Martin’s feet. But Martin knows it can’t always be like this. Martin knows, of course he knows. He has read in hundreds of poetry the importance of self-love. Martin isn’t even sure if he can reach self-tolerance without the guilt of existing threatening to choke him alive.</p><p>——<br/>
“I’ll prepare the rice.” 

He gives Jon a quick peck on the cheek. Thankfully, there had been one second-hand rice cooker at the village store; Lord forbid they boil rice in a pot. As he goes through the motions of washing the rice, he finds his hands trembling at the familiar touch of the grains in water.</p><p>When he was younger, he distinctly remembered his parents telling him between laughs to always finish his rice, or he’d end up with a girl with lots of spots on her face. That day he ate it all, happy for the brief reprieve where his parents weren’t arguing over some asinine disagreement. Perhaps once he even believed in it. After his father left, he ate all his rice in remembrance of happier times, and though he would never admit, at the dream of getting married to a beautiful girl. That dream had vanished the moment Martin realised his heart only beat faster at the cute boy in his fifth form class. He had left school before he could act on anything, not that he would’ve dared to with his mother around.</p><p>He looked at Jon, his handsome, thoughtful face frowning at the stove’s stuttering refusal to turn on. In the end, Martin was quite a failure to his family, wasn’t he? No university degree, not married, not even dating a proper Chinese girl. </p><p>Martin shook his head. That was behind him now. Now was for the wonderful future that stretched out before him, uncertain in all but the wonderful certainty that Jon would be here through it all. Martin gets to wash rice with someone who loves him, revel in the shared domesticity of cooking for each other, providing for each other equally. Isn’t this what he has been yearning for his whole life? A tiny dream he held close to his heart and let bleed all over his poems. His mother’s opinion of him doesn’t matter. She’s gone now. she’s gone now and he didn’t even grieve her with anything other than the perfunctory funeral rites. All too glad to finally be at peace with everything and to let go of everything she had done that had cut him so deeply and scabbed over and get cut all over again in the name of filial piety. Was that wrong? That he only felt relief when she was dead? </p><p>He startles to find his vision blurring, eyes warm with tears. He blinks, feeling them roll down his cheeks and plop into the washed rice. </p><p>“Martin?” Oh God, Jon’s staring at him. Martin feels his hands being taken into Jon’s smaller, calloused ones. Jon rubs comforting circles between Martin’s thumb and index finger, and Martin can’t help but gasp at the building pain climbing at his throat. Jon pulls him closer, pulls him towards his chest. Martin acquiesces, leaning down to him. A big guy like him seeking comfort in a scrawny thing like Jon; Martin lets out a choked laugh. </p><p>“Nothing it’s just.... it’s just nothing.” </p><p>Jon wipes his tears away with his warm thumb and presses kisses on Martin’s eyelids until the tears have stopped falling. </p><p>“No rush. I’m here if you need me. just... don’t keep it bottled up, alright? You don’t have to tell me now, or ever... but...” Jon struggles to find the words.</p><p>“Yea,” Martin says. </p><p>Jon takes his hand and asks, “Can I kiss you?” </p><p>Martin nods, and Jon lifts his hand up and kisses the back of it slowly. They breathe in deep together. All Martin wants to do is just lie down and revel in his warmth, the feeling of human touch. Martin knows he can’t— shouldn’t— find an anchor in Jon. Can’t give him that responsibility. No, he has to be steady on his own before he can rely on Jon for such comfort. </p><p>Martin pushes down the urge to press him close. Instead he presses his head onto Jon’s shoulder for a while more, and they both stand there for a while until the smell of burning coconut fills the air and Jon swears and they laugh and Martin never wants this to end.<br/>
——<br/>
<i>I’m empty and I’m aching and I don’t know if I can love you like I've always wanted to, like you want me to,</i> Martin thinks. His eyes trace over Jon’s frown lines, his nose, his lips, down to the dip of his collarbones and Martin feels the moonlit air between them as solid as anything. He yearns to reach out, to soothe the worm scars and the burn marks on Jon’s arm. But he feels as though he were both air and stone, transient and immobile. At that point a worry takes hold of him that if he touches Jon, he’ll find his arm passing right through. </p><p>How long can he hold his breath? Keep still? Keep this domestic tableaux? How long does romance last, once the honeymoon period fades away? His father had left his mother and him all alone and Martin knows with surety as the tide waxes and wanes with the moon that love is made of impermanence. A fine thing to observe and yearn for in art and poetry and cheesy films, but no one talks about the aftermath, of stilted conversations and tension so thick you could cut it with a knife, yet brittle enough to shatter with a passing passive aggressive remark. </p><p>Martin breathes slowly, and lets the cold darkness seep over him until— </p><p>Until Jon reaches around, pulls him closer and buries their sharp chin in Martin’s shoulder, humming. Martin can feel their cold nose against his neck and wants to shiver with relief. <i>It’ll be fine one day</i>, Martin realises, giddy with the epiphany, <i>everything will be fine one day</i>. He can learn to love himself, will learn to love himself. It’s a journey he has to take himself, but he doesn’t have to do it alone either. </p><p>Gingerly, he takes Jon’s hands around his waist and holds it to his chest before drifting off into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.<br/>
—<br/>
Martin sometimes goes on walks with Jon. He mostly goes alone, though; thinks about himself, thinks about his mother. About Tim. Sasha. He thinks about his life until when he breathes in the cool highland air, the ache is no longer there. Not numb in the way that he had felt in the lonely, but instead a more gentle, perhaps even soothing pain. Equal parts acceptance-grief and happiness at the person he has become because of them. Martin begins to write poetry again, not about the heady ideals of romance but the little domesticities he shares with Jon, the rolling Highland hills, the adorable fluffy cows, the wind that blows through their cabin at night that make them gravitate towards each other for warmth. </p><p>Martin once read that learning to live was simply just making it a habit. Learn to live today, and then tomorrow, and then the next until it becomes as easy as breathing. He believes it. Breathes it.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>references:<br/>dizigui: basically a whole guide on how to be a good child and a good student; lots of chinese kids are made to memorise it. </p><p>bei da: beijing university</p><p>filial piety: this is a whole ass subject on its own. from wikipedia, "filial piety means to be good to one's parents; to take care of one's parents; to engage in good conduct not just towards parents but also outside the home so as to bring a good name to one's parents and ancestors... to ensure male heirs; display sorrow for [one's parents'] sickness and death; to bury them and carry out sacrifices after their death."<br/>i think a lot of martin's behaviour can be understood from the need to uphold filial piety; in how self-sacrificial he is, his relationship towards his mother (especially the need to take care of her despite her mistreatment of him) and others, the need to please others. the idea of a son's duty to get married and have children (especially sons) is very much ingrained in chinese culture today, and to not produce children can be a source of shame and guilt for the parents and their child, especially if their kid is... not heterosexual. also chinese people tend to place A LOT of emphasis on one's education. it really stems from ancient times and that emphasis continues today. the fact that martin drops out is definitely a decision full of conflict wrt his need to uphold filial piety both via getting a good education and also taking care of his mother. additionally, i can only imagine how much the divorce must have hit martin's mother if she is a first generation immigrant; after her divorce, she hates this country, she wants to go back, but can't because she might be shamed for not being successful. english reminds her of her ex husband and she has no choice but to use it, no choice but to rely on her son, who reminds her of her husband. all this just generates a very toxic household that martin has to learn to heal from by himself; quite frankly i think even if his mother recognises the hurt she's caused him, he'll never get an apology from her. his mother's death is also something martin must contend with because filial piety says he has a duty to mourn her. i think martin has to deal with a lot of guilt in feeling like he has to repay his existence to his mother but maybe thats just me projecting lol.</p><p>1. yes i projected a little but no this is in no way a reflection of my home life. </p><p>2. martin's depression is taken from my experiences with FEELING depressed. i havent been diagnosed at all but unfortunately i struggle with feeling... like that. </p><p>i would like to give a thank you to my friend who listened to me ramble about chinese!martin. </p><p>this is very much a baby's first fic; i haven't written anything for other people's consumption in a long time and it's the first time publishing on this platform too. i know the pacing was a little off but i didn't feel like dragging on the writing so i ended it before i got sick of it. also sorry if the ending got a little cheesy... i have never really completed a work in my life ever.</p><p>hope you enjoyed it, do let me know if you liked it!</p><p>edited 6/9/20: fixed some embarrassing grammatical errors</p><p>edited again 19/1/21: the part abt nostalgia was bothering me for the past few months so i went against my vow to never look at this again and changed it, sorry.</p></blockquote></div></div>
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